


Common Misconceptions

by iridescent_blue



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, andrew can feel things shut up, basically an andrew character study, because lord knows i dont understand him, drastic overuse of italics, ft king fluffkins how appropriate, hes my BOY and i only want HAPPINESS for hIM, i have a comma splice problem shut it, i love andrew like neil loves andrew, no beta we die like men, thats all the bad stuff and its not graphic because I CANT DO THAT, they say i love you suck my fat cock, uhhhh yeah also fluff at the end, yeah thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescent_blue/pseuds/iridescent_blue
Summary: There is a common misconception about Andrew Minyard. It's that he can't feel.If you look closely enough, you couldn't be more wrong.(Basically, an Andrew character study that is fueled by my never-ending love for a blond, five foot tall Exy player)
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 19
Kudos: 201





	Common Misconceptions

**Author's Note:**

> I never started working on this until after ten at night and also the last 2k words were written TONIGHT and i have a RAGING cold so sorry if this is incoherent as shit
> 
> i apologize for not being able to stick in one tense im TRYING MY BEST OKAY
> 
> anyway accept this character study as well as a weird look into andrews side of the whole relationship deal

There is a major misconception about Andrew Joseph Minyard. The misconception is that he doesn’t feel. The upperclassmen think this, Wymack and Abby think this, Kevin thinks this, Nicky thinks this, and even Aaron, Andrew’s  _ twin, _ thinks that Andrew is essentially soulless. They could not be more wrong. They assume he’s something of a psychopath, incapable of emotion yet possessed by violent urges. The only one who knows better is Bee. 

See, many years ago, when Andrew was small, he was a normal child. Sure, he liked to argue, but that was true of many toddlers and young children. Andrew felt happy and sad and hopeful and fearful. He understood the feelings of wonder and awe and the feeling of his heart beating too fast in his chest. The only difference between Andrew and other children was that he had a perfect memory, but that just meant he could memorize episodes for cartoons and tell them to kids at school.

The problem is that emotional vulnerability gives people a way to get to you. Andrew understands that now, but when he was seven, he only understood that if he cried, they hurt him more, and they  _ liked it. _ So, Andrew stopped crying. He stopped fighting back. He just closed his eyes and waited for it to be over. The issue was, he couldn’t forget it. Every moment was burned into his brain, 

When he was still young and stupid, thinking that foster mothers could help him against their husbands and sons, he had asked for help. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, they would try to help him. He was wrong. He was so very wrong. 

It only took the first house. He was seven years old. After the fifteenth time he was forced to miss dinner for “misbehaving” and the umpteenth slap in the face for “disrespecting family,” Andrew stopped asking for help. He wouldn’t even cry. He stopped smiling, stopped asking for things, stopped needing anything. Every emotion he felt went into a locked box, deep inside him, and never came out. Every time one threatened to break loose, he covered it up by ripping into his skin and letting himself feel pain instead of whatever traitorous emotion threatened to break out. 

So no, Andrew is not emotionless. Most days, he feels emotionless, but the constant heaviness in his gut reminds him that he is so terribly human. Andrew has decided, long ago, that being human is a waste of time. Scratch that,  _ being _ is a waste of time and energy. So, Andrew puts as little effort as possible into being alive. He eats, sleeps, blocks out anything and everything, does the bare minimum for a person of his age, and then does it all over again.

When he was twelve, that routine included Drake. In juvie, the routine was mandated by a warden. When he was with Tilda and Aaron, his violent rage made its first appearance. Living with Nicky and Aaron and finishing highschool involved an incredible amount of self-restraint. When he was seventeen, everything changed. Everyone in Andrew’s life learned of his fiercely protective streak. He was judged to be “unnaturally violent” and that, mixed with his apathy, gave him a sentence of intense psychological treatment. During that trial, the small child that still resided deep in Andrew’s gut had wanted to scream and be heard and let everyone know that he was  _ normal. _ That child just wanted to ask the members of the jury where they were on the days and times that forced him to become this shell of a human. However, Andrew had a lot of practice with controlling that child, and no words left his mouth during that hearing. 

Then, drugs. Sure, Andrew had gotten high before (and never really was drawn to it, after seeing the spirals Aaron went through, as well as the withdrawal), but the drugs were different. A very,  _ very _ bad kind of different. It sent a terrible, horrible buzzing through his veins, like all of his limbs were constantly stuck in the state of being half-asleep.

Even worse than that were the feelings it sent through his head. Where there had a calm, almost meditative apathy, there was now a constant stream of commentary about every train of thought he had. It was a mocking commentary, a word association game, and cruel whispers of his past. 

He still didn’t feel anything. His hysterical reactions to anything and everything meant nothing. It was a byproduct of his drugs making his brain go haywire. He laughed and smiled and felt a hollow joy in cruelty, but nothing real made its way to the surface. At age 18, Andrew wasn’t even sure he knew who he was anymore. There was the locked box of himself deep in his core and the drugs and beyond that, he didn’t know. Realizing that didn’t even scare him. Maybe that was when he felt deserving of being called “monster.”

Bee was the only person who knew any of it. She had let him sit in silence for many sessions, tolerated his endless rambling from the energy of the drugs, and carefully listened for any part of a story that could be a truth. Eventually, she relayed the things she had gleaned from Andrew’s high rants, and that was when Andrew realized that he couldn’t just scare her away. 

So, he began to tell her the truth. She’d ask a simple question and his mind would run in circles, giving her every possible answer to the question that was truthful in a tone that told her he could care less of what she thought. Even though she was legally obligated to notify the court when Andrew was sober, she found a loophole. On Wednesdays, they wouldn’t text. They would not communicate in the slightest. Andrew would miss the beginning of practice and skip his next dosage, timing it so that on the drive to Reddin, he would sober up and be coherent for his session. They would talk, and Andrew would try to bring up one thing to work on or continue with the previous week’s discussion. Fifteen minutes before their session ended, Andrew would take the drugs and walk out of Bee’s office as the monster everyone expected him to be. The courts had ordered Bee to notify them if Andrew was sober, but HIPAA trumped the court’s decision and anything within their sessions had to stay private unless Andrew was an active danger to himself or others. The definitions of “a danger to others” were stretched in Andrew’s case, but nonetheless, Bee kept her mouth shut.

Everything was fine for his first year. He became the monster and brought his “family” (it was a stretch even calling them that) and Kevin down with him. They reach a new normal. The drugs made life interesting at the very least, to the point where Andrew just let himself coast along on them like he’s on the world’s shittiest rollercoaster. 

And then Neil happened.

Neil was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to be an addition to the striker line, nothing more. He was supposed to be some boring high school athlete who thought he was on top of the world. 

Neil Josten, with his damaged, dyed hair and fake brown eyes, was anything but that. From the moment the borrowed racquet buried itself into his stomach, Andrew realized that Neil was going to be a problem. The problem was that he was  _ interesting. _

One of the emotions that Andrew locked away, behind his intestines where no one could get to it, was interest. Sure, he’d invested some time in Exy and classes just to hold his attention so his brain wouldn’t eat itself alive with boredom, but he never was truly interested in anything. That is, until Neil showed up.

Neil wasn’t just interesting, he was captivating. His eyes, flickering back and forth in any new place to find the nearest exit. Andrew knew that look. He’d felt his own eyes do that after he turned seven. Every time he entered a room he found its exits. He found an escape plan. He knew Neil’s brain inside and out because it was just like his own. 

However, when Neil first spoke to the press, Andrew realized where they differed in their brains. See, Andrew knew when to shut up for his own good. He knew that there were limits, he just didn’t care sometimes. Neil? Well, when Neil opened up his mouth, it was clear he had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. The Idiot (as Andrew had nicknamed him in his head) just didn’t fucking care what anyone thought. Andrew knew that kind of recklessness. He had read the pamphlets and posters in psychiatrist’s offices. He knew that recklessness meant that Neil knew that his days were numbered, so he was making them count. 

That made Andrew annoyed. There was another layer to Neil that he didn’t understand. How could someone so hellbent on surviving (as evidenced by his scars and shitty disguise) be so at ease with their death looming in the distance?

Their honesty game started. A truth for a truth. Neil gave half-truths, omitting important facts but still telling the vague truth about himself, while Andrew gave short, direct answers to Neil’s questions.

Neil became one of Andrew’s group. He became  _ Andrew’s. _ Neil was his to protect, long before he made a promise. Neil was interesting and captivating and even though Andrew knew that anything he tried would end in flames, he couldn’t help but push closer and closer. 

And then came that fateful night at the Hemmick’s. Unfortunately, Andrew could remember every moment in detail. He preferred not to, since remembering Drake’s hands on him and his words made him need to run to the bathroom to retch, but he remembered the sickening, satisfying  _ crunch _ of Aaron burying a racquet into Drake’s skull. He remembered Neil pulling a sheet over him, making sure that he could have some semblance of decency. That small gesture of kindness would have swept Andrew’s feet out from under him. While Kevin and Nicky could only stare in shock, Neil had jumped to save any part of Andrew’s psyche that he could.

A strange, foreign warmth had flared in Andrew’s chest. It started in his lungs and ran up his spine, pushing heat into his bones. It was gone as quickly as it started. Andrew had never felt it before, not even back when he allowed himself to feel at all. This was the feeling of truly being cared for not out of necessity, not out of guilt, but out of true compassion. Neil was that compassionate force. 

And that was going to be a problem for Andrew.

Thankfully, it wasn’t Andrew’s problem for very long. Soon after, he and Bee made the decision to get him off of his drugs. For days, the one thing his manic mind had been doing was replaying that night, to the point that Andrew refused to eat, viewing food as a waste of time since it would just come back up in an hour. His brain viciously recalled the feeling of the bottle hitting his head, the rough blows raining down on him, his pants being ripped off, Drake’s fingers crushing his hipbones. He needed it to stop. He needed his brain to just shut up. So he went to Easthaven.

It was a mistake. Proust thought that the best way to help him work through his trauma was to make him relive it. Not physically, no, that would get Proust fired. Instead, he forced Andrew to recall every incident with perfect clarity. Between that and the rapid withdrawal of the drugs, Andrew regularly heaved his guts up every night. The only thing keeping him there was the fierce need to protect Neil and Kevin and Aaron and Nicky. He couldn’t hold his ground if he was in such a state of mania that his brain wouldn’t focus for more than three seconds. More importantly, he couldn’t tell Neil the truth unless he was sober. 

They picked him up from Easthaven. Neil was battered and bruised and bloodied, and it took all of Andrew’s willpower (which, now sober, was an incredible amount) to not let his gut instinct of  _ protectprotectprotect _ take over.

Instead, he went sparring with Renee. Every punch he threw was a punch at Riko’s disgusting face. He had branded Neil. He had decided that Neil was  _ his. _ But Neil was Andrew’s, and Andrew did not like it when other people tried to take his things, especially a nice one like Neil. 

There was something more about Neil. Sure, he was beautiful, even with his skin marred by scars, and he had caught Andrew’s interest from the day that racquet slammed into his diaphragm, but there was something more to Neil. Andrew wanted to hold Neil close and keep him safe and have Neil be  _ his, _ but he also wanted to be  _ Neil’s. _ It was a dangerous thing, wanting someone. It was even more dangerous to wish that they wanted you back. It was especially dangerous when Andrew felt like he couldn’t say no to Neil, and even more dangerous when Neil always said yes to Andrew. 

As far as Neil knew, Andrew was a psychopathic, soulless monster. Andrew had never let him see any of the feelings that threatened to bubble their way to the surface around him. But there was something in Neil’s eyes, something about the way that he read the most minute parts of Andrew’s body language, that suggested otherwise. Neil knew Andrew’s bad days when no one else did. Bee couldn’t even read him that well. It was scary, being known. But since it was Neil, Andrew felt strangely at peace with it. He didn’t feel like he was being analyzed for a cure or a way to be exploited, Neil was trying to figure him out just for the sake of being able to  _ know _ him. 

When he kissed Neil up on the roof that afternoon, he’d known it was a bad idea. He didn’t ask Neil if he could, he had just given himself over to the  _ want  _ that had been desperately pushing at him for weeks. He became everything he had sworn to avoid. 

“I won’t let you let me be.” Andrew could not be like them. If he became one of them, he would just have to fling himself off of the roof. He’d make an unremarkable  _ splat _ from this height and it would all be over. He was gearing up to get up and leave and drink himself into oblivion when Neil said just the right words to make him want to crush their mouths together again and again, until the end of time.

“The next time one of them says you’re soulless I might have to fight them.” Ah. So Neil had known, all along, that there was a real, horribly vulnerable human inside Andrew after all. An unfortunate discovery, since now Andrew was absolutely positive that Neil could see through every indifferent facade he put up, even when his thoughts threatened to consume him whole. 

Thirteen days later, Andrew kissed Neil again. This time, Neil asked. Neil said yes. Neil made sure that his hands stayed right where Andrew wanted them, and Andrew could feel the tension in his body, the fear of slipping up evident in his muscles. He could feel Neil’s mouth, desperate against his own, seeming to repeat a mantra of  _ I’ll stay, I’ll stay, let me stay. _ That strange warm rush flooded through Andrew again, and this time, he didn’t tamp it down. He let himself push harder against Neil, to tell him  _ you are not going anywhere, you are safe. _

Those few moments with Neil were where it all started. When Andrew was with Neil, taking him apart, he didn’t fear the feelings that roared up inside of him. Neil wouldn’t hurt him. Neil wouldn’t exploit him. Neil always asked  _ yes or no, _ always wanted to make sure Andrew was comfortable, always asked him if he was sure. 

Sometimes, in Columbia, they would just lie in bed together. Andrew would force his stony demeanor down (it refused to fall, after so many years of making it stronger) and would let Neil put his head on his chest. Andrew would wrap his arms around Neil, and on good days, he managed to press a small kiss into Neil’s hair. Being anything other than soft was difficult for the both of them. They were both trained to fight anything and everything, and for a while, their  _ nothing _ had been full of resentment for themselves and the overwhelming urge to protect the other.

They say old habits die hard. For Andrew, opening up that locked box of feelings inside of him was nearly impossible. Every time he tried to let himself feel something, there seemed to be a tide pushing at his very limits, threatening to break him. Sometimes, he had to push himself off of Neil and run his hands under burning hot water until the strain in his head and gut lessened. Other times, he would push it all away and give himself over to Neil’s careful hands and soft breath. Bee had always told him that recovery was non-linear. A dark and selfish part of Andrew told him that this wasn’t recovery, it was him using Neil as a crutch, but that part of him was a remnant of the drugs. It was nowhere as loud as it used to be and Andrew could control it. Sure, Neil definitely expedited the process, but Andrew was the one to open up inside himself. Neil didn’t even see it until Andrew showed him.

Andrew doesn’t smile. This is a well-known fact to everyone. However, another fact that everyone knows is that Andrew is emotionless. So, the term “fact” has no meaning at all anymore. Andrew smiles, on the inside. He can be happy, he can be sad. He definitely can be angry. He just has a talent for getting feelings to  _ shut the fuck up _ before they can reach the muscles in his face. That’s been changing, though. 

Five years after he graduates college, Andrew is twenty-eight years old. He lives in a small apartment on the third floor in Boston and shares the space with Neil and their cats. Sir and King are the definition of menaces, and Andrew can’t help but love them. Love. That’s a new thing that he’s letting himself feel and acknowledge. He couldn’t deny it forever, not when Neil is around almost all the time. Andrew loves Neil. It’s slowly working its way into his truths. Instead of the three being  _ sunrise, Abram, and death, _ they are now  _ sunrise, loving Abram, and death. _ Such a minute change on paper. Only one word, six characters (seven if you count the added space), but it throws Andrew for a loop every time he thinks about it. Maybe that’s what love is supposed to feel like. That warm rush that Andrew feels run through his veins is not lust, is not anger. It is love, and that is scarier than anything to him. But he stays.

He’s contractually obligated to. He and Neil are playing for the Boston Rebels, and while the team needs some work, they’re getting somewhere. Neil’s panic over the Moriyama deal has subsided with having a contract with a team that is sure to be renewed, and Andrew has to admit that living in Boston is nice. He likes being close to the ocean, yet far away from the waters that hold so much of his and Neil’s pain. It gets cold as hell in the winter, but that just means that Andrew has an excuse to hold Neil a little closer in the mornings. 

Speaking of Neil. He’s home. With a box in addition to the groceries that he went out to for. His face is flushed and pale in places from the cold and his nose is running (Andrew wasn’t kidding at just how  _ fucking cold _ it gets), but his face crinkles as he grins when their eyes meet. Andrew would take a picture, but his mind is helpfully capturing every moment to save for later. So Andrew files away this beautiful image of Neil for later and focuses on the box.

“Neil.” Andrew only speaks like this when he wants something, and there is something in that box that he is five seconds away from grabbing for himself.

Neil hums in acknowledgment, putting away the groceries with an ease that comes with living in the same place for two years. “What do you want, Drew?” Neil knows what Andrew wants. He fucking bought the monstrosity. Andrew huffs and gets up from his cocoon on the couch, almost hissing at how cold the floor is on his bare feet. He points.

“You got me something.”

“How do you know it’s not for me?”  _ Oh that little fucking tease. _

“Neil. That is a box from Flour. There is no fucking reason that there would be something for you in that box.”

“You know me too well.”

“How unfortunate. What did you get?” Andrew reaches for the box, but Neil, with his goddamn athlete’s reflexes, grabs the box and holds it above his head. Neil may only have three inches on Andrew but he exploits it whenever he can. Andrew is not above climbing Neil like he’s some sort of undignified tree, but today just isn’t worth it. 

“You have to ask for it! I got you a gift, Andrew. A  _ gift! _ ” 

“Fuck you. Fine. Yes or no?” This is how their exchanges go. Neil gets something for Andrew and won’t give it to him unless he gets payment first. Payment is a kiss.

Neil nods, and keeping his hand holding the box far above his head, leans in to meet Andrew in the middle. This kiss is soft and sweet, infuriatingly domestic for two broken men who never should have made it this far. But that isn’t what Andrew is thinking about. He’s thinking about whatever may be in that box. It’s the only reason he stops himself from pushing Neil against a counter and absolutely ruining him in the kitchen. 

He pulls away, hand extended, and Neil begrudgingly places the box in his hands. Tied with butcher twine, this is Andrew’s holy grail. It’s too light to be anything but what Andrew was expecting, and when he opens the box, a meringue half the size of his head, embedded with chunks of chocolate, looks back at him. Perfect. 

Neil huffs as Andrew picks up the entire thing and takes a bite. “And here I was, thinking you loved me. But no, you’re just food-driven like the fucking cats.” To emphasize his point, he leans down and scoops up King, who has been winding between their legs, demanding attention since Neil got home. The sight of Neil holding a cat, bumping his nose against hers, makes Andrew feel warm inside, and today since he is feeling particularly brave, he lets himself smile, just a little bit. 

Neil freezes. Understandably, of course. Andrew doesn’t smile often. Even rarer are truly content smiles. Andrew knows that Neil can see the dimple that forms in his cheek and he knows how beautiful Neil finds Andrew’s smile, even if his mouth is full of meringue and chocolate. And if that soft expression on Neil’s face makes Andrew smile a bit more, no one needs to know. 

That night, while they’re laying in bed exchanging soft kisses, Andrew lets himself have another moment of bravery, because hey, today has been a day of remembering things and celebrating progress. The words are practically out of his mouth before he’s done thinking them.

“I do love you, you know that.” It’s not a question. Andrew loves Neil. He’s said it before, and every time it gets a little bit easier. 

“I do know that, Andrew.” Neil’s answer hangs in the air, not pushing Andrew to answer, but there is a silent question in the way one of his eyebrows raises. He’s asking  _ why _ Andrew needs to tell him that when he already knows. 

“When you mentioned that you thought I loved you but I’m just food-driven. I do love you.” Saying anything like that to anyone else would have Andrew doing everything in his power to not rip his skin to shreds, but with Neil, it just feels like all of the tension in his body is gone. 

“I love you too, Andrew.” Neil is so disgustingly sincere these days. He’s stopped lying almost entirely and Andrew can’t decide if he liked the liar or hated him. Today he’s thankful that Neil decided to let that part of him die as well. 

“367 percent, Junkie. Go to sleep.” Andrew reaches over and turns out the light and wraps his arms around Neil in the process. Their limbs tangle together and for a fleeting moment, Andrew is reminded of the Greek myths about soulmates, where there were beings with four legs and four arms. The beings were too powerful in the eyes of the gods, so they were split in two, doomed to search for each other for all eternity. If that’s true, then this is the closest Andrew will ever get to being back in that original state. He and Neil are jagged puzzle pieces that shouldn’t ever connect, but they do. They don’t need each other. They don’t complete each other. But they match, and maybe that’s enough. 

So yes, there is a common misconception that Andrew Minyard cannot feel. However, if one were to look close enough, they would see that there is more feeling in him than water in the Atlantic. 

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOO BOY I HAVE WEIRD PRESSURE IN MY TEMPLES ITS 12:20 RN
> 
> also flour bakery dOES exist in boston AND those meringue clouds are REAL and ive HAD THEM and they are ALL andrew could want and more
> 
> also why do they end up in boston so much in fics post palmetto? whats with boston? im not complaining its a lovely city but like wow its boston and chicago that are the main ones for pro teams can someone explain
> 
> aight im gonna take some tylenol and pass the fuck out drop a kudo if u liked it and a comment if u have the energy to say something which I SURE DONT
> 
> love u gn


End file.
